Trebled Soul
by hawthorneash13
Summary: Many people think of the moronic, stupid Prussia. But a part of him has been forgotten and buried for so long; the musical aspect of himself. In reality, he could play every instrument and possibly more that Austria can. He had to; music was their way of entertaining his people, of inspiring them, and he never lost his love for the passion and adventure music brings.


Prussia looked around the empty concert hall forlornly. It was Austria's; why he was here was a mystery to him. He was the only soul present in the grand hall. Above, the ceiling was fine red velvet, in a dome shape. Silver leafed columns ran up the wall in common intervals, balconies splitting the wall occasionally. The brushed silver hand rail gleamed in the dim light from the warm chandeliers high above. The seats were tightly rowed and velvet, with bronze trim. This hall was purely for the music; no orchestra pit, but an entire stage _for_ the orchestra. In the familiar shape of a half circle, black chairs sat on this stage, all pointed towards the conductor's perch. There were no stands here, no; for this was (as America would put it) the big leagues; and you were expected to know your music. This was a huge ensemble band, or orchestra. It was confusing; like the layers of an onion, there were woodwinds and brass in these seats, with strings and percussion in the back. Strange indeed, and Prussia knew this. Despite his 'attitude' about music, saying it was girly and prissy, he _knew_ about it, and not from Austria. Music had kept his soldiers and citizens entertained for decades before he dissolved; he knew and respected its power. No matter what language you spoke, or what instrument you played, you can relay thought without the tongue. You can teach an instrument to someone who doesn't speak your language; all you need to do is point to the note on the page and then to the note it represents on the instrument. Prussia could play _every_ instrument on that stage; the woodwinds, the brass, the percussion, the strings. He hadn't done so in a while; he found himself staring at the sparkling keys of the vibraphone, the shiny bell of the trumpet and the amber gleam given off by a cello. He could imagine a soft trill in the echoed recesses in his mind of the long tones of the winds, and C scale or 8-on-a-hand being beaten into shape.

A small part of him reared at what he was thinking; why should the awesome Prussia care about some stupid instruments? Because they had been his and his peoples guiding comfort and ritual. Prussia was dressed in a black suit; Germany had made him come to a meeting and dress in things other than jeans and a T-shirt. Gilbird sat on his shoulder, his warm feathered body accenting the Prussian with his yellow contrast. He didn't quite know where any one was, and he was getting bored. So he walked up the stage. If anyone saw him, he would just destroy an instrument, but he doubted he could. He found the green bottle for cleaning mouth pieces on the conductors stand, taking it. He passed the flutes, the clarinets, the saxophones, until he entered the brass. Curiously, he picked up a French horn, sprayed the mouth piece, and started the warm ups. Lip slurs, long tones, and he was ready. He launched into a old song that was typically played on the bugle in his time, but adapted it. Hand in bell; he beat out the tempo with his foot. It actually turned out to be quite good and complicated; something Austria would play. Feeling his embouchure fail him, he ended the song, sprayed the mouth piece, and placed it back on the chair. All most forgetting, he emptied the valves of his spit in a nearby trash can. He looked up to the balconies again, just to make sure no one had seen. For a moment, he thought he saw a head, but when he rushed to look back at it, it turned out to be a photograph on the wall. He released a sigh of relief as he strode to explore even more instruments. But he wasn't aware of the brown haired head lurking in the shadows, confused but rushing to get Austria. Hungary made sure he wasn't playing anything when she left, him just admiring the instruments.

Prussia found himself back in the woodwinds. He took apart a mouth piece, found a reed that suited him, sprayed it, and played yet again. This time it was clarinet, his fingers traveling lazily up and down the black and silver body of this haunty instrument. Alleluia from Exsulate, Jubilate (K. 165) Mozart jumped out of the bell. It was a somber, with underlines of elation, and a steady tempo. Looking around for an instrument had given his mouth a break, so he was playing with fresh strength. Again, he ended the song, eager to try something else. He traveled to the percussion, but defying expectations and not going straight to the typical snare (don't worry, he'll get there) he walked to the marimba. He hadn't played percussion since he marched into battle. Well… that was drums. He picked up four mallets, two in each hand, counted off, and executed _Flight of the Bumblebee_ expertly. Hungary had dragged Austria down into the seats below, saying that Prussia was messing with Austria's instruments to convince him to come down, because he wouldn't believe that Prussia was playing. Austria stared, aghast, agog, completely astounded. Prussia played as well as _him_, even better in some things. He had seen the tail end of the Alleluia and now Prussia was playing one of the most difficult pieces like he was _sleeping. _Once that was done, Prussia moved to the strings. Hungary whispered in Austria's ear,

"I don't know if this has anything to do with this, but Austria, he is_ much_ older than you. He's one of the oldest nations around, which is why hardly any of the public even knows about him." She pointed out. Austria nodded numbly. Prussia picked up a cello, sat, and put it between his legs. He flicked the back of the hair on the bow, seeing the small puff of rosin float into the air. He warmed up on the cello, getting used to the angle at which he had to drag the bow across the strings. Then he played. It was something all his own, complete raw emotion in this. It was strange, the sound. Cello was notorious for sounding like a voice. He put into this song what it felt like to lose his country, his humanity. All the suffering he's been through and the suffering he's _inflicted_, it was such emotion that Austria and Hungary didn't even know Prussia could hold this much capacity for hurt. They thought his ego protected him from feeling his wrongdoings; apparently, not. Filled the room with his soul, like the flight of a black eagle across the ocean. Right as he was about to decrescendo, he dropped the bow, hand slamming his cheek in agony. He grit his teeth as he gently set the cello down so it wouldn't get hurt. He stood, eyes watering in pain. When he took his hand away, he expected blood, but instead light flowed through a crack in his face. He furrowed his brow as another crack split the side of his forehead, he fell to his knees, holding his face. Austria and Hungary hurried to his side, asking what was wrong, what was going on. Prussia couldn't hear them, only the intense voices in his head. All said the same thing; come. Another crack split his side, shining through his clothes.

"What wrong with him?" Hungary asked, helping Austria drag him to the left wing.

"I don't know." He mumbled as he put him on a pile of robes. Finally Prussia drew his hands away, and his face was completely glowing. It was like a inner light shining through cracked marble. His eyes, in their scarlet glory, glazed over as he gazed into the distance. Austria and Hungary sat in front of him, trying to see what was going on. Prussia gasped at another crack, arching his back and looking up. He sat there before understanding filled him. He made peace with his demons, and felt the life he lived pass over him like a river. He smirked, eyes drooping. The glow left his face, but the cracks remained. He reached out, grabbing Hungary by the hair and Austria by his tie-thing. He pulled them to where he could speak into their ears,

"And so I have lain down my sword for the bow and have the song that will never be sung." And Prussia fell back, his body again lighting in a fantastic glow. On his way down to the ground, he shattered in a ray of brilliant light.

Prussia left because he had nothing more to keep him there.

He mourned on the cello.

He fought on the vibraphone.

He laughed through the clarinet.

He flew through the horn.

His eagle flies onto the morning dew of the next world, a world of countries like him.

The dissolved.

The forgotten.

The remembered.

**So… I had no idea what I was doing, but whatever. I don't know why I came up with this strange ending, but I did, so yeah. In case it wasn't clear, Prussia left; as in, he's were other dissolved countries are, so no more awesome Prussia, which is sad. Perhaps this will be a two shot, depends on reviews, to be honest. If you guys want an alternate ending or whatever, I'll do the next chapter.**

**P.S" this was just a way to clear out the writers block i've been having with my other stories, so if the plot isn't good or anything like that, sorry.**


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